The Frozen Dead

by Bernard Minier

  Hanging … Servaz’s throat tightened, but his attention grew sharper.

  ‘I know what you’re thinking,’ said Saint-Cyr, meeting Servaz’s gaze, ‘but I can assure you that she hanged herself, there was no doubt. The pathologist was categorical. It was Delmas, you know him, he’s a competent fellow. And they found a clue in the girl’s desk drawer: a sketch she had made of the barn, which even included the exact length of the rope she needed to be sure that her little feet would not touch the ground.’

  The judge choked on these last words. Servaz could see he was on the verge of tears.

  ‘A heartbreaking affair. She was such a sweet child. When a seventeen-year-old boy took his life five weeks later, on 7 June, everyone thought it was just a terrible coincidence. But by the third one, at the end of the month, people were beginning to wonder.’

  He finished his Armagnac and put the glass down on the coffee table.

  ‘I remember that one, too, as if it were yesterday. That summer there was a heatwave in June and July, magnificent weather, endless warm evenings. People lingered in their gardens, by the river or in the outdoor cafés, just to find some cool air. It was too hot if you lived in a flat. They didn’t have air-conditioning back in those days – or mobile phones, either. That evening, 29 June, I was in a café with Cathy d’Humières’s predecessor and a deputy prosecutor. The café owner came looking for me. He pointed to the telephone on the counter. It was a call for me. The gendarmerie. “They’ve found another one,” they said. I immediately understood what that meant.’

  Servaz was feeling colder and colder.

  ‘The boy hanged himself too. In a ruined barn at the end of a field of wheat. I remember every detail: the summer evening, the ripe wheat and the day that seemed to go on and on, the heat baking the stone even at ten o’clock in the evening, the flies, the body in the shadow of the barn. I came over faint. They had to take me to hospital. Then I went on with the case. As I said, I’ve never had a more difficult matter to deal with: a terrible ordeal. The grief of the families, the incomprehension, the fear it might happen again…’

  ‘Does anyone know why they did it? Did they leave any explanation?’

  The judge looked at Servaz with an expression that, even now, was bewildered.

  ‘Not the slightest idea. We never found out what had been going through their heads. Not a single one left an explanation. Obviously everyone was traumatised. You would get up in the morning afraid you would find out about another suicide. No one ever understood why it happened here, in our part of the world. And of course parents were terrified. They tried as best they could to keep an eye on their children, without the kids knowing – or they simply didn’t allow them to go out. It lasted for more than a year. Seven in all. Seven! And then, one fine day, it stopped.’

  ‘What an incredible story,’ said Servaz.

  ‘Not really all that incredible. Since then, I’ve heard of similar events in other countries – Wales, Quebec, Japan. Suicide pacts among teenagers. Nowadays, it’s worse: they can contact each other over the Internet; they send each other messages through forums: “My life has no meaning, seek partner to die with.” I’m not exaggerating. In the case of the suicides in Wales, they found other notes among the letters of condolence and the poems, messages that said, “I’ll be with you soon” … Who could imagine such a thing was possible?’

  ‘I think that in the world we live in now, everything is possible,’ said Servaz. ‘Particularly the worst.’

  An image came to his mind: a boy walking through a wheatfield with a heavy step, the setting sun at his back and a rope in his hand. All around him the birds were singing, the long summer evening was bursting with life – but in his mind there was already nothing but darkness.

  The judge looked gloomily at Servaz. ‘Yes, that’s also my opinion. As regards our young people, they didn’t leave any explanation for what they’d done, but we do have proof that they encouraged each other to go through with it.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘The gendarmerie found batches of letters in the homes of several of the suicide victims. They’d all written to each other. In their letters they spoke about their plans, how they would go about it, even their eagerness for it. The problem was that the letters were not sent by post, and they all used pseudonyms. When they were found, we decided to take the fingerprints of all the adolescents in the area between the ages of thirteen and nineteen, and compare them with the prints found on the letters. We also used a graphologist. A long, painstaking job. An entire team of investigators were on it twenty-four hours a day. Some of the letters had been written by children who had already died. But we were able to identify three new candidates. Incredible, I know. We put them under constant surveillance and had them work with a team of psychologists. One of them still managed to electrocute himself in his bathtub with a hair dryer. He was the seventh victim … The other two never went through with it.’

  ‘And the letters?’

  ‘I kept them. Do you really think there could be any connection between this business and the chemist’s murder and Lombard’s horse?’

  ‘Grimm was found hanging…’ suggested Servaz cautiously.

  ‘And the horse, too, after a fashion…’

  Servaz felt a familiar tingling: the feeling that a decisive step had been taken. But towards what? The judge stood up. He left the room and then came back a few minutes later with a heavy box filled to overflowing with documents and binders.

  ‘It’s all here. The letters, a copy of the case file, expert evaluations. Please, don’t open it here.’

  Servaz nodded as he looked at the box.

  ‘Did they have anything in common? Other than the suicides and the letters? Did they belong to a gang, a group?’

  ‘Oh, you can be sure we checked into that, followed up on every lead, moved heaven and earth. No luck. The youngest one was fifteen and a half years old, the oldest eighteen; they weren’t in the same class, they didn’t like the same things, and they didn’t take part in the same activities. Some of them knew each other well, others hardly at all. The only thing they had in common was their social background, and even then … they all came from modest or middle-class families. None of them belonged to the wealthy bourgeoisie of Saint-Martin.’

  Servaz could tell how frustrated the judge must be. He could imagine the hundreds of hours he had spent following the most insignificant leads, the tiniest clues, trying to understand something so incomprehensible. The case had mattered a great deal in the life of Gabriel Saint-Cyr. Perhaps it had even been the cause of his health problems and his premature retirement. He knew the judge would take his questions with him to the grave. He would never stop wondering.

  ‘Are there any theories that are not in this box but that you considered?’ Servaz asked suddenly, now beginning to say tu to the judge as well, as if his story had brought them closer together. ‘A hunch you gave up on for lack of proof?’

  The judge seemed to hesitate.

  ‘Of course we had a great number of theories,’ he said cautiously. ‘But not one had even an inkling of proof. Not one was substantial. It is the greatest mystery of my entire career. I suppose that all examining magistrates and investigators have at least one such puzzle – the case they didn’t solve. The one that will haunt them until the end of their days. A case that has left them with a permanent aftertaste of frustration – and which seems to cancel out all the successes.’

  ‘That’s true,’ said Servaz. ‘Everyone has their unsolved mystery. And in those cases there is always one lead that is more significant than the others. A vague idea that hasn’t panned out, but we go on feeling that it might have led somewhere, if only we’d been lucky, or if the investigation had turned out differently. So there was nothing like that, really? Something that isn’t in the box?’

  The judge took a deep breath and looked Servaz straight in the eye. Once again he seemed to hesitate. He brought his bushy brows together, then said, ‘Yes, t
here was one hypothesis I particularly liked. But I couldn’t find a single thing, no testimony to support it. So it stayed in here,’ he added, tapping his skull with his index finger.

  ‘Les Isards Holiday Camp,’ said Saint-Cyr. ‘Maybe you’ve heard of it?’

  Servaz allowed the words to wander through his brain until the memory pinged like a coin dropped in a piggy bank: the abandoned buildings, the rusty sign on the road to the Institute. He recalled his reaction at the sight of that sinister place.

  ‘We went by it on our way to the Institute. It’s all boarded up, right?’

  ‘Exactly. But the camp was in operation for several decades. It was opened after the war, and only stopped taking in children at the end of the 1990s.’

  He paused.

  ‘Les Isards was set up for children from Saint-Martin and the surrounding area who couldn’t afford real summer holidays. It was run partly by the municipality, a director was appointed, and they took in kids between eight and fifteen. The usual activities: hiking on the mountain, ball games, physical exercise, swimming in the nearby lakes…’

  The judge grimaced, as if he had a toothache coming on.

  ‘What got me interested in the place was the fact that five of the suicide victims had been at the camp. And it was within the two years preceding their suicide. In fact, that was almost the only thing they had in common. When I took a closer look, I found they had all been there for two consecutive summers. And that the director of the camp had changed the year before the first summer.’

  Servaz was rapt with attention. He could guess where the judge was heading.

  ‘So, I began to look into the background of the director – a young man in his thirties – but I couldn’t find anything. He was married, had a little girl and a little boy, an uneventful life…’

  ‘And do you know where he is now?’ asked Servaz.

  ‘In the cemetery. He had a motorcycle accident, collided with an artic ten years ago or so. But I couldn’t find anything anywhere suggesting that the teenagers might have been sexually abused. And besides, two of the suicide victims hadn’t even been to the camp. Moreover, given the number of local kids who went there, it’s not at all surprising several of them would have that in common. So I finally gave up on that lead…’

  ‘But you go on thinking you might have been on to something?’

  Saint-Cyr looked up. His eyes were sparkling.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You mentioned the complaint filed against Grimm and the other three that was almost immediately withdrawn – I suppose you questioned them, too, during the investigation into the suicides, no?’

  ‘Why should I? There was no connection.’

  ‘You’re sure you didn’t think about them at any point?’ asked Servaz.

  Saint-Cyr seemed to hesitate yet again.

  ‘No, of course I did…’

  ‘Can you explain?’

  ‘This business with the sexual blackmail wasn’t the first rumour to go round about those four. There were others, both before and after. But never anything that led to an official complaint, other than that one time.’

  ‘What sort of rumours?’

  ‘Rumours implying that other girls had been subjected to the same sort of treatment – and that for some of them it ended badly, that the boys had a tendency to drink, and once they were drunk they became violent – that sort of thing. But the girls in question were all of age, or almost. Whereas the suicide victims were children. So I rejected that theory. And besides, there was no shortage of rumours in those days.’

  ‘And was it true? About Grimm and the others?’

  ‘Perhaps it was … but I wouldn’t bank on it: things are the same here as anywhere else. There are untold numbers of self-proclaimed gossips and nosy-parkers who are prepared to spread terrible stories about their neighbours just to pass the time of day. And they’ll make them up if need be. It proves nothing. There is an element of truth in there, I’m convinced, but the rumour was probably exaggerated every time someone new got hold of it.’

  Servaz nodded.

  ‘But you’re right to wonder whether the chemist’s murder is connected in some way with this ancient history,’ continued the judge. ‘Everything that happens in this valley has its roots in the past. If you want to find out the truth, you must leave no stone unturned – and look carefully at what you find underneath.’

  ‘And what about Hirtmann’s role in all this?’

  The judge gave him a thoughtful look.

  ‘That is what, back in my working days, I would call the “detail that doesn’t fit”. There was always one in every case: an element that obstinately refused to fit into the puzzle. Rule it out and everything made sense. But it was still there. It refused to go away. It meant that something, somewhere had escaped us. Sometimes it was important. Sometimes it wasn’t. Some judges and cops decide outright to ignore it; that’s often the way a judicial error is born. As for me, I never overlooked that detail. But I didn’t allow myself to become obsessed by it, either.’

  Servaz looked at his watch and got to his feet.

  ‘It’s a pity you and I are not on this case together,’ he said. ‘I’d much rather be working with you than with Confiant.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Saint-Cyr, getting up in turn. ‘I think we would have made a good team.’

  He gestured at the table, the kitchen and the empty glasses on the coffee table.

  ‘Allow me to make a suggestion. Whenever you have to stay overnight in Saint-Martin, you will be my guest for dinner. That way you won’t be obliged to eat that disgusting hotel food or go to bed on an empty stomach.’

  Servaz smiled.

  ‘If it’s always this generous, before long I won’t be able to conduct any more investigations.’

  Gabriel Saint-Cyr gave a hearty laugh, banishing the tension that had lingered from his story.

  ‘Let’s say that was an inaugural meal. I wanted to impress you with my culinary talents. The next one will be more frugal, I promise. We have to keep the commandant in shape.’

  ‘In that case, I accept.’

  ‘At the same time,’ added the judge with a wink, ‘we’ll be able to discuss how you’re getting on with the investigation. Within the limits of what you can tell me, naturally. Or shall we say, from a theoretical rather than practical point of view. It never hurts to have to justify your conclusions to another person.’

  Servaz knew the judge was right. He had no intention of telling him everything. But he was aware of the fact that Saint-Cyr, with his sharp mind and professional logic, could prove very useful. And if there were a connection with the suicides, the former judge would have a lot to tell him.

  They shook hands warmly, and Servaz went back out into the night. When he reached the little bridge, he saw it was snowing again. He took a deep breath of night air to sober up a little, and felt the wet snowflakes on his cheeks. He had nearly reached the car when the phone in his pocket vibrated.

  ‘Something’s come up,’ said Ziegler.

  Servaz stiffened. He looked at the mill on the other side of the stream. The judge’s silhouette went by the window, carrying plates and cutlery.

  ‘We found some blood at the crime scene that didn’t belong to Grimm. The DNA has just been identified.’

  Servaz felt as if an abyss had just opened at his feet. He swallowed. He knew what she was going to say.

  ‘It’s Hirtmann’s.’

  * * *

  It was past midnight at the Institute when Diane heard the tiny creak. She was not asleep, but in bed with her eyes open – fully clothed. She turned her head and saw the ray of light under her door. Then she heard the muffled steps.

  She got up.

  Why was she doing this? She didn’t have to. She opened the door a crack.

  The corridor was dark again, but the stairway at the end was lit. She glanced in the other direction, then went out. She was wearing jeans, a jumper and slippers. How would she justify her presence in th
e corridors at this time of night if she ran into someone? She reached the stairs. Listened again. The echo of furtive footsteps going down. They did not stop on either the third or the second floor. Finally on the first floor the footsteps came to a halt. Diane froze, without daring to lean over the banister.

  A click.

  Whoever she was following had just entered the access code to the first floor. There was one security box per floor, except the top floor, where the staff sleeping quarters were. She heard the door to the first floor give a buzz, open, then close again. Was she really doing this, tailing someone in the dead of night?

  She went as far as the security door, where she hesitated, then counted up to ten. She was about to put in the code when something occurred to her.

  The cameras.

  Surveillance cameras were installed wherever the patients slept or could move about. At every strategic spot, on the ground floor as well as the first, second and third floors. There were no cameras, however, in the service stairs, which were off limits to the residents, or around the staff quarters. Everywhere else the cameras kept a close watch. If she carried on following the night wanderer, she would find herself recorded at some point or another …

  So the person ahead of her was not afraid of being filmed. But if the cameras were to capture Diane’s passage in their wake, she would be the one to look suspicious.

  She had got no further with her deliberations when she heard footsteps on the other side of the door. She barely had the time to hurry to the stairway and hide before the biometric security lock buzzed again.

  For a split second fear gripped her heart. But instead of going back up to the staff quarters, her quarry continued downstairs. Diane hesitated only a second.

  You’re insane!

  When she got to the door on the ground floor, she stopped. There was no one in sight. Where were they? If they had gone into the common rooms, Diane would have heard the security lock buzz again. She almost failed to notice the door to the basement, on her left at the bottom of a final flight of stairs: the door was slowly closing … There was only a fixed doorknob on this side, so it could not be opened without a key. Diane rushed forward and slipped her hand into the space, just in time to stop the heavy metal door from clicking shut.